Surveys have been done that revealed most of those who succeeded in 'arts careers', i.e. made a good living at it, came from families with money. They went to the best art schools where they formed mutually helpful cliques; were supported with a generous allowance while they practiced art; were introduced to Society's elites, the arts bureaucrats and gallerists who could connect them with rich collectors; and were provided with sharp lawyers who could protect their copyright, make sure they were paid properly for their work and not ripped off in any way.
What a foolish dreamer I was to think I might make a decent living from art. I'm a queer anarcho-activist from social housing with no connections or money. I was rejected from the NAS, the snootiest art school in Sydney, when I applied in 1982. I won't draw/paint crap just because I think it will be fashionable or sell like a piece of decorative furniture. And I won't enter the Establishment's art competitions as I think they prostitute "art" as apologists for The System i.e. high capitalism, fascism and elitism, with wankers judging them based on their personal taste and politics, or whatever is flavour of the month.
I got a small level of notoriety from sheer perseverance and hard work, wall papering the city with my posters, exhibiting in numerous shows, handing out flyers to every urbanite I could get near, showing my films in all mediums possible and expressing my creativity on every digital platform I could think of. Maybe this is enough, I might even be able to claim the grand title of "artist", after all being renowned on "The Underground" has some cachet.
But No God help me if I ask to be paid for my work or attempt to have my work taken seriously. The poster I've included with this story is a good example of the continuous fuck-over I've experienced in my turbulent life. I was a member of The Prisoners Action Group and was seriously concerned with prisoners' rights, for as a queer man and anarcho-activist my very existence was considered criminal. I've been continuously threatened with gaol and I felt terribly for the harsh conditions prisoners had to endure within The System. Myself and fellow travelers, lesbians, gays, feminists and allies, decided to do something about it. We pursued campaigns to stop screws from bashing the inmates; we got Violet Roberts released after many years of incarceration due to her murdering an husband who bashed her throughout her marriage; and we tried to help Ray Denning, the bank robber who'd had a shocking life of neglect and brutality, till The System indeed turned him into the human animal they'd long branded him as.
Some of us, Wendy Bacon and friends, got arrested a few times, either at "Right to Life" rallies fighting for women's issues, or for barricading ourselves into the screws' union office to highlight their cruel practices inside the gaols. Many years later these stunts were held against me by the pigs, the activism was indicative of my own criminality and I was thus easy to frame for an armed robbery and have any small chance at a successful life ruined.
I considered my political activism as part of my art practice, the "situationist" stunts, the posters, performances and gigs, all of it holistically connected. I organised the Garibaldis benefit with the help of Women Behind Bars and allies, I silk-screened the poster at the Tin Sheds and I used my film "My Survival as a... Deviant?!" as one of the acts, as that's what I had to offer and I felt it had some merit. We raised money for the campaigns and managed to communicate facts about prison issues to a wider public.
On the night three drunk witches threw wine in my face and accused me of trying to get fame off these political issues. My eyes stung, it was vicious, I was crestfallen as it had been hard work, no one else had volunteered to do it. Fame hadn't entered my head, I had come from the gutter and I knew I was going back to the gutter, and that's where I went, for the next forty years, middle class cunts be damned. I knew anyone connected with Ray Denning would get the opposite of fame, disgrace.
In 2019 I submitted the "Garibaldis Violet Roberts Campaign" work to the Paper Tigers Poster Exhibition put on at The NAS Gallery by the SEDITION Festival. Two of my works were accepted, nicely framed, not submitted by me, (I don't know who), and I was very happy about it. But my poster below didn't make the grade, not "seditious" enough, or maybe it didn't even get reviewed as it somehow disappeared, perhaps stolen while it waited in a stack for the curators to peruse.
Someone must've realised its value, as a hand-crafted artefact and an historical document, and stolen it. It never made it back to me and when I've mentioned it to the organizers or my rep, Mr. Minton who carried it out of my apartment, I'm told, "I don't remember it." It might not mean much to others but it meant a lot to me and I'm absolutely seething when I think of it. It's par for the course when one is a powerless, nobody artist. Mr. Joseph Lebovic, Paddington poster-seller extraordinaire, if someone approaches you with it, remember, it was stolen from me, as were many of the posters of mine you've been selling, which I made while on the dole and starving.
Recently I was sent an email by the State Library of NSW that an old 1979 work of mine, "Garibaldis Benifit - Cabaret Conspiracy" is to be shown at an exhibition titled "Coming Out in the '70s". This of course pleased me. But there would also be merchandise depicting this artwork of mine, on tea-towels, lens cleaner cloths and tote bags. Not a word asking for my permission, it was a fait accompli, and no mention of any financial compensation or a contract to be signed. I quickly wrote the curator a peremptory letter asking, "What's in it for me? If there's nothing then I'll have to talk to Arts Law and my LGBTQ community about it." I got an urgent message back, "Please consider 10% royalties of net and come in and sign the contract ASAP", which I gratifyingly did.
It took a long time, I'm 71, but I'm getting stronger about these matters every day. What annoys me about things like this is I have to chase them and, after being upset for a few days, I had to ask like a beggar at the door. When I went in to the gift shop to sign the contract for my measly 10% I gazed lovingly at the lens cleaner cloth, so gorgeous with my "fluoro queer gang" upon it, but was I offered a discount if I wanted one? Not on your fucking life!
I'm not talking about art as only worthy if it's making money, bullion art, big money. I've made art, not as a commercial proposition, but for the sheer joy of it, or the community need for it. Nearly everything I've ever done was given away, stuck up on walls or shown on social media. But it pisses me off when I discover some entrepreneur making big bucks from what I starved to create. Or they turn up repeatedly expecting artists should do it for free, then go die in their garret, the romantic bohemian ending.
All through my life-long non-career I've had to plead to receive any sort of payment. It's hard enough getting considered for inclusion, one is meant to be ever so thankful and honoured to be in a show, a book or whatever, one is willing to bend over and get fucked up the arse for the sheer joy of it. I promise you, I'm over it. Glory doesn't put butter on my butt.
(Many years ago one creep asked me if I'd submit one of my prize-winning drawings as an illustration in the book of poetry he'd got a grant to publish. I said, "OK, you're offering no money but I'll give it to you for free anyway." And he replied, "Oh no, you have to pay me $300 for the privilege of being seen in my book." I told him, "Stick your arse-wipe poetry where the sun don't shine!")
